


It Grows of Its Own Accord

by MadMothMadame, PeacefulDiscord



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, But not too bad considering it's us, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Uchiha Izuna Lives, Warring States Period (Naruto)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23743666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadMothMadame/pseuds/MadMothMadame, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeacefulDiscord/pseuds/PeacefulDiscord
Summary: "Root yourself well, tend to the soil and the sun, and you can grow tall while always having a home to return to."Tobirama and Madara put down roots.
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uzumaki Mito, Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 60
Kudos: 620





	It Grows of Its Own Accord

**Author's Note:**

> Our regular works were making us sad, so we have teamed up to give you some of the saddest fluff you will ever read. We figured everyone could use something happy and sweet right now, and bonus, it was super fun to work together! Huge shout-out to LostInThePines for betaing this for us. Please drop us a line if you like it, or just hit the little Kudos button. Thanks for reading <3

~

Madara woke alone. 

It was hardly unusual. Tobirama worked long hours and needed less sleep than his new husband. But it was still disappointing. He adored seeing Tobirama in the morning light when the early rays filtered across silver hair and pale skin, basked in a glow that softened the usually austere face into something unbearably sweet. 

Not that Madara would ever say that. 

So, naturally, he went in search of him. 

His first guess was the office just next door. It had been empty until Tobirama had moved in, and the Senju had claimed it as if it had always belonged to him. Traces of him were in every corner of the room, from the stacks of paper covering the desk to the books littered along shelves and across the floor to the diagrams pasted across the walls, all signs of Tobirama but not the man himself.

Madara went to the kitchen next, where he could occasionally catch his Senju brooding over a cup of tea long gone cold while he was lost to his thoughts or rinsing rice, mixing miso into soup for them to start their day with, but again, nothing. 

So, he reached out, his chakra warm like embers, writhing in restrained heat, until it reached the quenching, cool breeze of his husband’s.

Husband. _His_ husband. The reality of it was still novel. In a time when most shinobi didn’t live long enough to love anyone but themselves, Madara had hardly expected to find someone worthy of it, let alone live long enough to marry the man.

Fate had been kind to him. Kinder than he deserved. 

There he was, the soothing presence that had been missing from his bed. He followed the thread connecting their chakra. Just beyond the kitchen, beyond the dining room and the hearth, past the _engawa_ into the courtyard central to all Uchiha homes.

There, Madara found him, flushed pink with exertion, sleeves rolled up. 

His husband had been busy.

A new, raised garden bed had been built in the far corner of the courtyard, lined in stones. Smooth and white, the new stones shone in the morning light, different from the other garden beds. The soil that filled the bed was dark and loose, new if the now empty bags off to the side was any indication, and different from the ash filled dirt that Uchiha usually favored in their gardens. 

In the center of the bed was Tobirama. A beautiful, healthy flush from the exertion pinked his husband’s face as he knelt in the earth, patting down the soil gently around a new sapling. A maple tree, a _suminagashi_ , Madara judged by the blood red leaves curling out from spindly branches. They rustled quietly as Tobirama’s hands tucked the small tree into its new home. 

Madara crossed his arms and leaned on the doorway, watching as Tobirama brought his hands together in an _inu_ seal. A tiny tendril of cool, clear water danced from the pond on the opposite side of the courtyard at its master’s call. It shimmied through the air before falling as a small, controlled, spring shower just for the infant tree. 

With a deep breath, Tobirama released his hold on the water, and turned to his husband. “Good morning,” Tobirama said, voice as soft and gentle as the morning sunlight that hadn’t even managed to make it over the courtyard’s walls.

Madara stifled the yawn that wanted to rise, reminded of the early hour, and that he’d much rather preferred to still be in bed. “Good morning. Are you finished?”

“Nearly.”

The Senju stood, movements graceful in their economy and Madara couldn’t help but look at his husband, feeling the ache of how much he _loved_ this man, and felt so, very, lucky.

Tobirama took what looked and smelled (even from this distance) like manure and scattered it around the small tree. 

Watching him, Madara felt the peace of the morning settle on his bones. 

It was such a lovely day. 

“You hungry?” Madara asked. 

Tobirama’s shrug was small, more a rolling of his shoulders than a properly dedicated movement, meant to imply his indifference. But Madara knew his husband, and smiled at his antics. 

That meant yes, Tobirama was willing to eat, even if such things were for mere mortals. 

Madara was more than happy to oblige, and left his husband to his gardening. 

He had just finished laying the table when Tobirama came back in, wiping his hands on a rag. 

“You’ll need to actually wash your hands, before you eat at this table, Senju.”

The Senju’s red eyes went from the table to Madara turning off the stove top, lips quirking in a subtle smile that was as beautiful as it was quiet and illusive, and went to the sink.

Once the younger man had settled down, Madara placed the fish, still steaming, in front of him, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“The garden looks wonderful. Thank you,” Madara said, his gentle smile stretching to a grin as he caught the slight blush dancing on Tobirama’s cheeks.

Tobirama cleared his throat. “Have you looked over the forms the Nara sent yesterday?”

Chuckling, Madara let his husband change the topic, falling easily into conversation. If Madara could spend every morning here, trading quiet words with his husband, their free hands twined together, he would consider it a life well lived. 

The next morning, Madara woke to find Tobirama missing from their bed once again. His husband was again out in the morning light, sitting next to the small tree. He appeared to be meditating, but Madara could feel the chakra swirling around the Senju as he breathed. Rising and falling with the tides, pushing and pulling against the tiny, spindly leaves of the tree. 

He was loath to interrupt whatever it was Tobirama was doing, it was usually unwise. But he had been looking forward to waking to his face, especially after missing the opportunity the day before. 

He sighed. 

Seems like breakfast would be his duty once again. 

Tobirama never did tell him why the garden drew him to it every morning, not even after months of devotion to the practice. Vigils beside the tiny, red tree dominated the mornings that used to be Madara’s alone. Some days, the ritual could be delayed in favor of hot hands and the insistent warmth of a bed shared, but never foregone. Not even when the spring showers blew in, darkening sunlit skies with heavy, frigid rain and cold, howling winds that pierced the skin kept the sane indoors. But out in the dark, Madara’s foolish husband still sat, shivering against the cold, soaked to the bone and splattered with mud. 

Nothing shook Tobirama’s focus on those days, not even when Madara layered a tarp over his wayward lover. The man was freezing. 

Madara pressed his chest to Tobirama’s chilled back, running jutsu warmed hands down his arms until the Senju came back from whatever depths of his mind he had wandered off too. 

“You’ll catch your death,” he admonished when Tobirama breathed back to him, leaning back into the heat Madara offered and trembling fiercely. 

“How can I when I have you to keep me warm?” he teased, an eyebrow raised slyly. A joke, a distraction to keep Madara from pressing him about his foolishness at trying to meditate through a typhoon, but the memory of it warmed Madara for days, even as his patience wore thin. 

Whatever it was Tobirama was doing out there, it was becoming ridiculous. Every morning, as the sun peeked over the clouds, Tobirama was beside the tree, legs crossed, and meditating, his chakra seeping from him to the thin branches to sink into the ground. 

Which meant every morning, Madara woke alone, and every morning, he made breakfast for a man who didn’t even want to stay in bed with him anymore. 

It was frustrating. He knew he had never been a particularly patient person, but he’d let it go on for weeks without asking, waiting for Tobirama to let him know what exactly he was hoping to accomplish. He’d been more than patient. 

It wasn’t that he minded what Tobirama was doing, per say. It was just, Madara missed his husband. They were both busy men, and their duties kept them apart for most of the day, often keeping the Senju away well past dark. 

Madara used to take comfort in their mornings together. He liked to wake with Tobirama near enough to wrap his arms around, press his face into that fluffy hair and relish the few moments they could have together where work wasn’t on their minds. Or, if it was, if Tobirama had been pulled away, he would try to explain what had kept him. 

He missed Tobirama’s godawful tea, the taste of the too-weak or too-strong brew, missed the food that would burn when Tobirama got sidetracked, genius too overwhelming to be stalled for something so banal as cooking. Missed how Tobirama could spend an entire sunrise sharing that brilliance with Madara, before such a distraction. 

Because now, at most, they ate breakfast together, and didn’t even talk about the tree that had put an end to his peace of mind.

Madara was sure he had his own strange habits, habits that Tobirama was endlessly patient with when no one else would bother, so he tried, but this new habit didn’t even make _sense_. 

“I don’t understand. What’s the point of sitting out there, tending to a tree your brother could easily keep alive?” he groused over dinner one night, “I’m sure Hashirama wouldn’t mind.”

Tobirama stiffened, the soft smile on his lips smoothing to cold indifference. “No.”

“Tobirama-”

“I don’t need Anija to set roots for me. I planted it, I will care for it.”

When Madara met his husband’s gaze, he flinched. Tobirama’s usually expressive face had stilled to the emotionless facade of the White Demon from the battlefield. 

Madara knew he’d misstepped. It didn’t happen often, but sometimes, sometimes a single misplaced action or word Madara didn’t understand the significance of managed to hurt Tobirama. It stuck to his throat like guilt, heavy-handed and weighing on him as the man avoided him for the rest of the day and into the next morning’s lonely awakening. No tree to blame this time. Instead he found Tobirama in his office, working, and that was somehow worse. Waking without Tobirama in his arms was painful, a reminder that his husband would rather be away from him, and it worsened as they went through breakfast together almost silently, waiting for the other foot to fall. Worked through the next day in stilted civility. Madara was tempted to pick a fight - it was just a tree! - just to break the unpleasant tension that hadn’t characterized their relationship in years, but he’d done enough damage. 

So they both stayed quiet, distant, no mention of the tiny tree passing between them.

He forced himself to keep his peace as Tobirama didn’t mention it either the entire day. Even that night, he laid next to his husband, and stared at the ceiling, feeling the churning guilt eat at him. 

Nothing until late that night, early morning really, when the moon had begun its descent, that Madara, after finally having fallen asleep, woke to Tobirama leaving his arms. 

It took him too long to rouse, sleep he desperately needed clinging hard. Anywhere but in this bed, in this house, he would have woken in an instant, but not here. Here, in their home, where he finally felt safe, he shouldn’t _need_ to wake before the sun.

But, having felt Tobirama leave the room, he knew he needed his husband far more than he needed sleep. 

Tobirama was tending to the small tree by moonlight. Of course. 

Madara ran a tired hand through his hair and went to him, dropping to sit down beside his eccentric, oddity of a husband. 

“You should go back to sleep,” Tobirama said, discomfort drawing the lines of his posture to a straightness that Madara had rarely seen in their home, moreso as of late. 

Madara snorted, and he could see it rankled Tobirama. He bit his tongue on the sarcasm about to escape. He didn’t want to fight.

“I don’t mind,” he said. “I just don’t understand.”

Tobirama sighed, but didn’t explain. Madara sat with him until he got up to make breakfast when the sun peeked over the walls, leaving Tobirama behind until the younger felt ready to join him.

Tobirama didn’t leave their bed in the middle of the night again, containing his strangeness to the hours just after dawn, and Madara, he could live with that if it meant not acting like strangers. 

“I just don’t understand it,” Madara huffed, as he flopped into his chair. He’d taken his little brother out to lunch, hoping that his husband’s rival might be able to offer him an insight into his strangeness. 

“Don’t understand what?” Izuna asked as he pulled an entire ball of dango off its skewer and sucked it into his mouth.

Madara grimaced but didn’t comment on his little brother’s lack of table manners, unwilling to waste time on useless endeavors. Especially when he had limited time to discuss more pressing issues at hand, less now seeing that his brother apparently hadn’t listened to a word he’d said. 

He glared at Izuna. “Tobirama’s sudden obsession with gardening. He has a brother with _mokuton_. If he wants a tree in our garden, why doesn’t he just have Hashirama grow one? Why does he insist on this pointless ritual?”

“Careful, Aniki,” Izuna teased. “You’re sounding worried.”

“Shut up,” he grouched, unwilling to admit that he _was_ worried. Worried he was missing something important. 

Izuna rolled his eyes, too keen to be fooled.

“Listen,” he said, polishing off the last of his dango. “Maybe it’s a clan thing, I don’t know, just-” he trailed off uncertainly.

“What?” Madara prodded, impatient.

“Maybe don’t mention that Hashirama should grow it. You know, in case it _is_ a clan thing. And, you know…”

Izuna didn’t need to finish. Madara _did_ know. 

Initially, the persistent rumors that followed Madara and Hashirama’s relationship had been more troublesome for the latter than the former. With Hashirama’s marriage contract with Whirlpool pending, the whispers that followed them of their supposedly romantic liaison had gone from humorous to annoying very quickly. When Mito finally arrived in Konoha, it had taken barely a week for Hashirama to fall head over heels for her. Equally so, it had only taken weeks for Madara to realize that the eyes following him were laced with _pity_.

Idiots. As if he and Hashirama had ever been anything but brothers. 

Still, it had taken a little over a year to acknowledge that there was something brewing between him and Hashirama’s younger brother, to see the potential there. For him to take a step back and really looked at the albino standing just five feet from him, who always held himself so much apart from the rest, and wonder, _what are you waiting for_? 

By the time things between them fell into place, Madara could honestly say that the last thing on his mind were the old rumors. They were old news, after all. The impact they would have on Tobirama hadn’t even dawned on him. Not until the whispers and eyes kept following them for weeks. It was petty, meaningless in the light of a long ended war and the shadow of the wonderful man Madara knew was undeserving of them. 

Tobirama never seemed bothered but, then, he rarely ever did. Madara knew whispers had followed the younger Senju since childhood, that they’d buried deep claws into his skin, gouging, until the man he loved doubted his own propensity for love. 

Still, gossip was every man’s trade and nothing was selling quicker, more outrageous with every customer buying the rumor that after Hashirama’s abandonment, Madara had turned his attention to the younger Senju out of spite. 

The problem with gossip was that it wasn’t something a person could defend against. It was ever pervasive. He’d been helpless to quell it too, much too aware that Tobirama did not take well to public declarations of affection. Madara had tried, not knowing, but later Tobirama admitted it left him feeling at a disadvantage, never really knowing how to respond. 

So, Madara respected that boundary with the patience it deserved. But it meant that the whispers took _months_ to subside, even minimally, fueled just as fiercely by their lack of intimacy and apparent distance. 

Madara had figured marrying his Senju would silence them forever, put an end to the derision and assumptions, but they had no such luck. 

If Izuna was concerned about the rumors, though, Madara would be an idiot to assume that Tobirama wasn’t. 

That night, his husband seemed no different, still pouring over his work when Madara got home. 

“Good evening,” Tobirama said with a tired smile before setting aside his work in favor of Madara. Willingly. Without question, just giving Madara the full weight of his heavy attention.

The older man didn’t know what to do with the sense of satisfaction, warm like an embrace, that enveloped him, knowing that _this_ , their little moments stolen from their busy days, were just as important to Tobirama as they were to him. “How was Izuna?”

“Same as when you last saw him, I imagine.”

Tobirama hummed in agreement. He saw more of Izuna than Madara did these days, what with them working together on nearly every one of Tobirama’s never-ending projects, but Madara didn’t want to talk about _Izuna_ right now. 

Instead, he walked around Tobirama, ignoring his husband’s confusion and settled behind him, legs on either side of the albino, arms settled around his waist. 

Tobirama didn’t say anything in response, just leaned back and let Madara hold him, his cool, pale hand running along Madara’s forearm where it held him close. 

It felt nice, very nice, to just hold his husband. But the position was as strategic as it was soothing. Madara knew Tobirama found these kinds of conversations easier when Madara couldn’t see his face, couldn’t read the expressions that threatened to paint the blank canvas Tobirama preferred to hide behind. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, nuzzling into Tobirama’s neck. “I won’t mention your brother’s _mokuton_ again.”

The hand on his arm paused, before curling tighter.

Tobirama didn’t say anything for a long moment. Madara didn’t mind waiting. He was comfortable where he was. 

“Thank you,” Tobirama said at last, and Madara could feel when he unwound enough to mean it, the tension leaving him in a single breath. 

“Will you tell me about it?” Madara asked, but Tobirama shook his head.

“Not now, but soon.”

Madara nodded and let the matter go.

The next morning, Tobirama was back in the courtyard, but this time, Madara was _determined_ not to mind. So, he didn’t. He made breakfast instead, watching his husband from the doorway until Tobirama was ready to come in. He tried to savor their one meal together, and tried not to miss seeing his husband’s sleeping face. 

And so it went for months, the small tree flourishing under Tobirama’s persistent attention. It appeared to be growing at a pace even Madara, with his rather impressive lack of arboreal knowledge for having a _mokuton_ user for a best friend, knew was much faster than usual, shooting up and out until the branches weeped under its own weight, feathery red leaves nearly brushing the moss Tobirama had laid beneath it. Each whippy branch curved out around the trunk, shaping something reminiscent of an umbrella shielding the trunk like it was a geisha’s perisol shading her from the sun. 

He was surprised to find that the new routine settled like a blanket, comfortable and warm. Even more so when he realized he liked it. He may not wake to his husband in his arms anymore, but he always knew where to find him. Tobirama was in the same place every morning, body relaxed in a way even sleep did not often grant him. Serenity flowing through his chakra in gentle, lapping waves that washed in from the courtyard, permeating their home. 

When Tobirama was away on missions, the tree seemed lonely, duller, like it missed the man as much as Madara did. He could sympathize with it, drawing him to take up Tobirama’s post with his morning tea, feeling the way the sun traced along his skin as it rose. He didn’t know if he was doing what Tobirama had been. Didn’t know if it was helping. But missing Tobirama was more bearable in the garden beside the tree. 

He was surprised when Senju Touka came to visit him. _Him_ , not Tobirama on one of those days when he was gone.

“I don’t know how you did it Uchiha, but if Tobirama cares that much, I guess I could tolerate you.” 

She had been one of the more dubious about Madara’s relationship with Tobirama, quick to show her distaste, and quicker to air her distrust. 

She hadn’t understood, hadn’t seen how he and Tobirama had moved from their previous contention to settle into a romantic partnership. How Tobirama had been able to find happiness with Madara of all people.

That made two of them, honestly. But Madara also knew better than to question Tobirama’s judgement by now. 

Tobirama said he loved him, so Madara believed him and was grateful for it. 

Touka had apparently been harder to convince. 

Her skepticism had led to more prickly situations between the cousins than Madara cared to admit, stabbing through his conscience brutally whenever Tobirama returned from his sparring sessions with her, pensive in his hurt and rage, unable to prove his conviction in their love and growing perhaps a little more unsure with it too. Madara had tried talking to her, but it had only made it worse. 

So, he was more than willing to take the declaration of a ceasefire between them at face value. Madara wasn’t sure what he had done, but if it kept her from staring him down like a hawk’s prey everytime he was in her line of sight, he’d take it. 

Her approval seemed to release some unspoken floodgate. Either that, or Touka figured that if she didn’t get to doubt their relationship, then no one else did, because suddenly people from all clans were approaching him, and Tobirama too upon his return, with kind words and congratulations falling past lips that had once sneered at them.

Even Hashirama had passed on congratulations from people who’d passed them on through him, something _no one_ would have dared before. The Hokage had been rather bemused. 

Nonetheless, things settled. Spring turned to summer, summer to fall. The little tree grew taller and wider, dominating the corner it called home, spilling out over the paths until its leaves withered and fell, iced over and dormant throughout the cold of winter. 

And while it rarely snowed in the Land of Fire, when it did, Tobirama remained undeterred in his routine. 

Madara found him, icy and pale and as cold as the snow he sat in, not even stirring from his meditations as the wet flurries bit into his skin. Madara only sighed, put tea on to brew, and brought his husband the thickest blanket they owned, tucking it about his shoulders. He was reluctant to ask the man to come in, knowing if Tobirama did, he’d be discomfited for the rest of the day. Madara didn’t want that. Tranquility was still rare in their lives. He wasn’t selfish enough to begrudge the younger man enjoying it while he could. 

After six months with his husband, Madara had learned that the Senju was more accustomed to cold weather, preferred it actually to the heat of the summer (unlike any self-respecting Uchiha would), and was far more hearty and hale than his lithe form suggested. 

Therefore, Madara tried not to worry, no matter how much it felt like he should. Instead, he focused on taking pleasure in warming his husband up again when he was ready to come back inside. 

Winter passed, green pushing through melting white. Madara would have to have been fully blind to not see the satisfaction the budding flowers of new growth brought Tobirama. It was obvious in the way his husband’s fingers caressed delicate flowers, and new leaves, with a private smile twinkling in his eyes.

Spring brought other changes as well, ones Madara really should have seen coming.

He’d known of Tobirama’s affinity for children. His tutelage of young Kagami had been what allowed Madara to see how inherently kind Tobirama was. And while Kagami may have been his husband’s first student, he was far from his only. The young Uchiha had been quickly joined by five other students from various clans who welcomed themselves just as readily into their home. 

Other small visitors soon became frequent guests as well. After all, there was no apprenticeship requirement for anyone asking for advice or a kind hand. It wasn’t long until the Uchiha main house was a revolving door of children. 

Madara insisted they all be polite, take their roughhousing and ear-piercing screeches elsewhere. His clan head authority rang out sharply, to disguise the sweets that slipped from his hands to theirs. He made sure that earned praise fell from him with ease, praise that Tobirama sometimes struggled with, whenever he helped Tobirama with those lessons. 

For the most part, he was content with this lot in his life. Happy, because though he was not overly fond of children, they made Tobirama happy. 

And perhaps he had grown used to them as well.

Which was why he thought nothing of young Jikano with his Senju _vajra_ stitched on a cloth hanging like a necklace proclaiming his heritage, but otherwise indistinguishable from the other small children in his cohort pouring out of the hallway that hid Tobirama’s office. All four loud and boisterous, an Uchiha, Hyuuga and Akimichi besides the young Senju. 

Madara was busy enjoying a cup of tea on the _engawa_ with his brother. Izuna lounged nearby, chasing a ray of sunlight across the wood as he read the awful romance series he was so fond of, sometimes aloud to Madara’s dismay. It was the first afternoon off both of them had together in a while, and Madara was more than happy to spend it quietly keeping each other company. 

“Madara-sama,” the children greeted him cordially on their way by. He nodded back, not looking away from the courtyard. After a year of tending, it looked lovely and tranquil. 

One of the pairs of footsteps came up short. 

“Oh!” Jikano gasped, “It’s so pretty!”

Madara and Izuna turned. 

“What is, Jikano?” the tiny Hyuuga asked. “The courtyard?” 

She sounded as bewildered as Madara felt. 

“No,” the Senju boy said, as though it was obvious, “The tree! The _love_! Oh, it’s so sweet!” 

“...the tree?” Madara asked.

Jikano looked startled to be addressed, but recovered quickly “It’s set its roots! And Uchiha colors too. Tobirama-sama must really love you.”

“But don’t all plants-” Uchiha Hikaru began, but Jikano just shook his head in despair.

“Not like this! Can’t you tell? They must be really in love. Just like my parents! They’ve a different tree but it all means the same,” the boy babbled. “I can’t wait to plant one too!”

Hikaru shook her head, sighing. “You Senju are so weird. Can we go to the market now? I need to buy some stuff for school and I want some yakitori.”

Jikano pouted, grumbling. “Fine. Unromantic Uchiha. No appreciation-” but Madara couldn’t hear the rest as the children went out the door, vanishing as quickly as they’d appeared.

“Oh, you idiot,” Izuna snorted. 

Madara blinked, spinning around to glare at his brother. “What?” he demanded. 

“Don’t you get it?” At Madara’s blank stare, Izuna rolled his eyes and continued, “Tobirama put down _roots_.”

… _Oh_. 

He was an idiot.

“Otouto,” he said, turning to where Izuna was still stretched out like a cat in the sun on the courtyard’s _engawa_. His brother blinked up at him. “You might want to find somewhere else to be.”

“Gross,” Izuna said, looking both like the cat that got the canary and a little disgusted. He dragged himself up and headed for the door. “I’ll lock the doors on the way out!”

But Madara wasn’t listening anymore. He was already slipping into Tobirama’s office, the door sliding shut behind him with a brisk snap. 

The Senju was standing, leaning over his desk, body slim and vulnerable in only his house clothes, while his armor and weapons were carefully tucked away on their stands in their room next door, foregone in favor, in trust, of the safety of _their_ space. Madara sighed. He really was an _idiot_.

“Madara?” Curious red eyes peered at him, brush falling idle in his hand. “Is everything alright?”

Madara didn’t answer with his words, just looked at his husband. In his experience, words were unreliable, too easily distorted by his flailing and bluster and always just the edge of wrong when it came to Tobirama. Some intent must’ve been obvious because Tobirama straightened, carefully making his way around the desk to stand nearer to Madara.

“Madara?” he asked again. Madara had no idea what his face was doing, but it seemed to reassure Tobirama, who softened, smiling at him. 

Madara held out his hand. Tobirama took it without question, letting himself be drawn in. Letting Madara kiss him and hold him, guide him back to their room with gentle touches. It was early evening, far too early for them to retire, but Madara didn’t care. He needed Tobirama’s hands on him, needed to hold his husband, bury himself there and maybe never leave. 

Tobirama let him. He held Madara close with nails that burned and teeth and skin and it was enough. More than enough. Seeing his lover, his husband sprawled beneath him on their bed, flushed and exhausted, but looking happy and _content_.

Madara loved him desperately. Endlessly.

After, Tobirama let himself be held, let Madara press quiet, open mouthed kisses to his shoulder blades, to scars left by life and bruises left by Madara’s teeth. This was its own kind of intimacy, a sign of their comfort with each other. 

(At the very beginning of their relationship, Tobirama could barely stand to stay after sex, would always grow antsy. Madara thought it was his lover’s formidable work ethic which made him hesitant to linger, that Tobirama just couldn’t stand being idle.

The realization that Tobirama was hesitant to wear out his welcome had been a cold wake up call. A dousing of ice water in the night, waking him from his complacency. Madara had been ceaseless in his efforts to show the Senju all the ways in which that would never happen since. It had led to a deeper relationship, one more open to hard conversations. It was one of the reasons Tobirama’s secrecy had hurt so much.) 

He had another point to make now.

“Your maple tree,” Madara said, feeling his husband’s soft relaxation tense under his hand. 

Tobirama’s head tilted just a bit to announce that he was listening.

“Jikano mentioned that it was a Senju tradition.” 

Madara felt Tobirama sigh, and he didn’t need to say why. 

Jikano could be a blabbermouth at the best of times. 

“He didn’t go into details, but Izuna had a theory,” Madara informed his husband.

“Really?” Tobirama sounded amused at the thought, a good sign. 

“He thinks you were putting down roots,” Madara said. “Is that all it is?”

“Somewhat,” Tobirama said, shifting as though he were uncomfortable. Madara let him go. 

Tobirama pulled himself up to lean against the headboard. The sheets pooled around his waist as his muscles rippled enticingly with the motion, but Madara didn’t let himself be distracted as he mimicked his husband’s position. He slid his arm around Tobirama’s shoulders, and the pale man came to rest against his chest willingly. 

“It’s an antiquated tradition,” Tobirama continued when they’d settled again. “I’m surprised Jikano knows it.”

“He mentioned his parents adhere to it.”

“Hm.”

Tobirama, whose words were weapons he had no hesitation in wielding, tended to be quiet here in this space. Maybe he just didn’t feel the need for them here. 

“It’s important, isn’t it?” Madara pressed. 

He felt Tobirama shrug. “Not to most people.”

“But it is to you,” Madara confirmed, as if anyone could have missed it.

“There is no lore attached to it, as far as I know. No special significance,” Tobirama said, matter of fact, “but my mother tended to hers every morning. ‘Root yourself well, tend to the soil and the sun, and you can grow tall while always having a home to return to.’”

Tobirama very rarely spoke of his mother. Her loss was a wound that had never fully healed. One of many Tobirama carried, but Madara understood those wounds, he carried his share as well. 

He pressed a kiss into Tobirama’s wild hair. “You were trying to grow that home here. I’m sorry I didn’t see it,” Madara murmured into Tobirama’s hair.

The younger man hummed, shifting a bit to snuggle closer. “Not your fault.”

It wasn’t a tradition his clan shared, fair enough, but still- “Will you tell me why you couldn’t tell me?”

Because that was what concerned Madara most. The hesitance. The lack of communication after they’d worked so hard to be open with each other. 

There was a long pause before Tobirama sighed. “...I was worried you would object.”

It stung. Madara didn’t want to be angry, but couldn’t help the pang of regret that sparked through his chest.

To think that still, after all these years, Tobirama _still_ doubted him.

“No,” Tobirama said, and he pulled away, twisted and curled to face Madara straight on, which Madara _knew_ he didn’t like, but Madara appreciated it anyway because he was feeling raw and exposed, and he wanted, needed to understand. Tobirama’s eyes were sincere and earnest when they met his, and it gave Madara patience. 

“It had nothing to do with anything you did,” Tobirama assured him, meeting Madara’s deadly eyes without fear. “I just- I’ve spent most of my life believing that I would never have this. You know that.”

Madara did. He knew the reputation that had haunted Tobirama for years, knew his husband had grown up feeling unwanted by a clan who saw his pale visage and overwhelming genius as things to be feared, to be abhorred. Even Madara had believed those things once, guilty as it made him.

“I do,” he acknowledged. “But I also hoped that you would know that nothing would make me happier than having you _want_ your roots here.”

Tobirama hummed and looked down to where his hand rested on Madara’s chest, against the _hiraishin_ seal etched there so that Tobirama was never more than half a moment away, always within reach, and traced his fingers along the mark. 

When he looked up, Tobirama was smiling so gently and quietly that Madara felt the tightness in his chest unwind. 

Leaning up, Tobirama kissed him, soft and sweet, before he said, “I _do_ know that now. Thank you for not leaving me any room to doubt.”

Madara kissed him back. They didn’t bother talking again for the rest of the night. They were better at showing each other how they felt anyways.

The next morning, Madara woke alone and for once, being alone in the dawn made him feel lighter.

He found Tobirama in the courtyard, as usual, but instead of staying at the edge of Tobirama’s chakra, letting it lap at his ankles, he waded in, allowing the heat of his chakra to soothe and warm as it slid in tandem with Tobirama’s, dancing and swirling in peace rather than its usual sharp burn.

He settled behind his kneeling husband, wrapping himself around the man and closed his eyes.

Taking a deep breath, he reached out and fell in, surrounded by and surrounding Tobirama and smiled as he felt the Senju’s chakra guide his to the tree. To the still sprouting leaves, to the solid heartwood, down, deep to the roots and sink into the ground, the foundation of their home, and encouraged it to grow strong.

Together, they breathed. 

And loved. 

~

_“Love is like a tree, it grows of its own accord, it puts down deep roots into our whole being.”_  
-Victor Hugo

~


End file.
